A Sudden Sunset
by VivBreakdown
Summary: Concerns Lyna Mahariel and Alistair's love and loss after the Fifth Blight. WARNING: Contains awesomeness, harsh language, some violence.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is an extended prequel to _A Sudden Sunrise. _It gives a good background, but I'm not as proud of it as I am its successor. ENJOY!**

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PROLOGUE

The moon was round and full as Lyna stalked the prey.

She moved across a high ridge, her feet sweeping silently over cool grass and soft soil. The ridge was separated from a similar eastern rise by a low valley that was cloaked in a world of shadow. On that far rise, Lyna knew, was Tamlen, though it was too dark to see him. They hunted together. Fractured moonlight fell between the branches of the trees and played off the tips of the wet grass below. Through the leafy canopy above, the night sky was alight with a thousand-thousand stars.

A cool wind was sighing in the trees as she moved. It lightly brushed her face and stirred her hair, as black as the sky above. The breeze felt good: it had been unbearably hot in the forest that morning. With it, the afternoon's heat had brought a feeling of lethargy to the camp. It had filled the air and forced the elves to scrounge for space in the shade. Lyna was glad to be out and on the move once again. The heat-spell had broken.

The most prominent feature of her western ridge was a broken pine tree that lay athwart her path. It was dead and rotten, its long russet trunk - still attached by ragged strips of bark to the base, like a partially decapitated head - had fallen easterly over the valley. Its branches were crooked, cracked and bare, completely devoid of needles. At first, Lyna assumed the tree had long ago been felled by some axe, but as she neared its shattered base she saw that the wounds were too savage and cruel to have been made by steel. The bark on the base and on the trunk was shredded, as if it had been violently assaulted. Portions of the wood, at the very tip of the base and the very base of the trunk, bore old scorch marks. _Ah, _Lyna thought, _now that explains it. _Lightning had visited this poor tree, it seemed, ages ago if the lack of needles was any indication, and in a fraction of a moment killed a tall and proud creature.

_I'm sure you were a mighty warrior in your day, _Lyna thought. She put a slender hand on the dead wood and murmured the elven prayer for the departed. "Sleep well," she said softly, giving the pine a pat. Then she lifted her pack over her head and placed it on the grass by the tree. It was relatively light, only holding an apple, a skin of water, and a roll of bandages and some herbs and flowers she had picked up as she hunted. She took a sip from the cool water and a bite from the apple, surprised at how hungry she was. She removed her bow from where it rested upon her back, and took her quiver full of arrows off her belt. Then she sat cross-legged on the grass with her back against fallen tree; the harsh bark dug into her back. She placed the quiver on the ground and lay her bow across her legs, closed her eyes, and waited.

The birds in the trees were chirping, heralding the start of a new dawn, and the first pale fingers of light were stretched across the eastern sky when Lyna first detected movement below. A hedge of broom shrubs marked the southernmost entrance to the valley. They shivered, as if touched by wind, and a few moments later the hedges parted, and a small creature forced its way through. The line of shrubs was some twenty meters away, and the light in the valley was still low, but Lyna could make out the figure and smell of a deer. It paused to gnaw at the yellow flowers of the broom; Lyna could hear the loud chomping. _Here we go, _she thought, and forced herself to her feet.

Silent as a shadow, Lyna drew her bow. Andruil's Three Tenets of archery - taught to Lyna by Master Ilen on the very day she picked up her first bow - flowed through her mind as she assumed the correct stance: nock, draw, loose. Keeping one eye on the deer, she drew a single arrow out of her quiver. Its shaft was ironbark, its point polished steel, the fletching raven feathers. _Nock, _she thought, placing the shaft of the arrow on the rest. _Draw._ She pulled the bowstring back towards her chest; there was a slight resistance as the bow stretched taut. Finally, taking a breath to still her movements, she measured her mark, took aim at the deer, and loosed her arrow.

There was a sharp _twang_ as the string snapped. For a moment - a fraction of a moment, really - Lyna saw bemusement in the deer's big brown eyes, but it was too late: the shot was straight and true, there was no wind resistance, the target was immobile. The arrow impacted just above the left eye; the deer was dead before it was able to cry out in pain. It fell to the forest floor with a boneless crash. A number of birds in the trees above took to flight at the sudden disturbance, shrieking their displeasure.

Quick as cat, she slung her bow across her back, fastened her quiver to her belt, and threw her pack over one shoulder. The wolves of the Brecilian Forest were tenacious beasts, and it would not be long before they moved in to steal her kill. Lyna slid down the grassless side of the ridge. It was not steep, and she emerged unharmed on the valley floor, covered in stirred dirt. She drew her dagger, a curved Dar'Misu in the Dalish style, then sprinted for the corpse. She preferred her bow in most cases, but a dagger would suit her better if she had to fend off some wolves in close quarters.

The deer had fallen in a bed of wild white roses; they surrounded the corpse like a funeral wreath. Above, the virgin sun was rising in the eastern sky. The way the sunlight filtered through the branches meant that some portions of the forest floor were illuminated, while others were left in darkness. The deer's hindquarters were shrouded, while its head and torso were alight with the sun. Lyna moved closer to inspect the kill. The arrow had indeed pierced just above the eye, and the trajectory of her shot meant that the arrow had moved diagonally downwards, through the brain. _Ah, at least it was quick. _There was not much blood, only a thin rivulet that trickled downwards from the wound, like a red tear.

Lyna placed a hand over the deer's heart. _"Dareth shiral," _she murmured. _"In uthenera na revas."_ She wrung her hands around the shaft of the arrow and snapped it in half. She threw the clean half away, then gently lifted up the deer's head and pulled the other half out by the arrowhead. This half was stained with blood and bits of brain. She threw that half away too.

"Good shot," said a familiar voice.

She looked up and saw Tamlen striding towards her from the east, a lazy smile on his face. With every step he crossed from shadow into sunlight, sunlight into shadow and back again. He walked a deal less soundlessly than she would have; fallen leaves crunched under his scuffed boots, and he moved through the foliage will all the elegance of a drunk bronto. He wore no bow, but a curved sword was at his belt.

She looked back at the deer. "Not so good," Lyna said. "I was aiming for the eye." Her eyes lifted upwards to meet Tamlen. "Where were you? I thought you might be on the other ridge . . ."

"I was. But I crossed into the tree tops an hour ago. I was watching you from above." He moved into the sunlit flowerbed. "Creators! Lyna, you look like shit."

"Oh, you certainly know how to woo the girls."

He laughed. "Girls? One is enough for me. I'm serious, though. You're covered in dirt. See!" He licked his finger and drew it across her forehead. She recoiled a bit from the wet touch, but when Tamlen pulled his hand away she saw that it was indeed covered with dirt.

"You do understand we live in a _forest_, yes? This . . . just adds to my natural musk."

Tamlen reached into her mess of hair and plucked out a long, crooked twig. A few leaves fell out as well and listed lazily to the earth. Tamlen held the thin twig aloft for a moment, twisted it in his fingers, then gave her a quick poke in the belly.

"Ow!"

"Is this part of your natural musk, as well?"

"The leaves and the stick make me look cultured, thank you very much." She crouched by the corpse once more and said, "Let's just get back to camp. I'm starving. Do you want to hold the fore or hind legs?"

When they returned to camp with their spoils they found Fenarel waiting for them at the outskirts. He had an anxious look upon his face.

"Fenarel!" Lyna exclaimed, wrapping her friend in a great hug. When she pulled away she said, "What are you doing still here? I thought you would have left hours ago. Is Junar here? I know you two were supposed to hunt together."

"He's here too. We were supposed to range this morning, at the crack of dawn, but the Keeper forbade it. There's been some . . . developments . . . since you and Tamlen left last night." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "You weren't followed, were you?" Fenarel took a long look into the forest, as if some malicious enemy was approaching behind.

"Fenarel, what's wrong?"

"The Keeper will explain it. She wants to see you - both of you." He nodded at Tamlen.

"I see. May I wash first?"

"Yes, but hurry."

Tamlen threw the deer carcass over his shoulders. "I'll bring this to Master Ilen. He'll sever the head and skin the body. The clan should eat well tonight. I'll meet you by Marethari's aravel in, say, five minutes?" He leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips. "You taste like dirt, love . . . literally." Then he smiled and was off.

_He'll sever the head and skin the body. Mythal'enaste, why does that turn me on?_ She gave an exasperated sigh, a thankful nod to Fenarel, and walked into the camp proper.

The Dalish had encamped in a wide, circular grove surrounded on all sides by high trees and thick shrubbery. Only a single, thin dirt trail led out of the grove, and even then its pathway was shrouded by high flora on either side. As soon as she moved out of the cover of the trees she felt the sun's warm embrace on her cheeks. She took a deep breath, savoring the clean air. Her nostrils filled with the smells of grass and the faint aroma of something pleasant cooking. Her elf-ears picked up the impatient snorts of the halla and the innocent laughter of the children. Here the grass was green and full, with not a single leaf marking the forest floor. She felt its cool fingers between her toes and on the soles of her feet.

She had not gone more than ten steps before she found herself mobbed by children. They surrounded her suddenly and almost silently, barring any escape. Lyna laughed. "My, my. What have we here? That was so organized. How long have you lot been planning to jump me?"

"We didn't plan it!" insisted Aratan.

"Yes, we did!" Variel declared haughtily. Out of all the children in the clan, she was Lyna's favorite . . . and she knew it, too. She loved to show Lyna those hazel eyes. Lyna loved children, as Variel knew full well. "There. See? I told the truth so I should get the most!"

"Don't lie, Aratan," Lyna said. "It's wrong. Remember: be honest." Variel smiled at that, clearly pleased with herself - until Lyna rounded on her. "And ratting out your friends is even worse, Variel. These are people that love you, how will it look if you betray that trust? Trust is key when you live as we live."

Variel cast her head down and muttered something unintelligible. It sounded like an apology, but Lyna did not press her on it. Instead, she said, "Chin up, _da'len._ You need not cry: I brought you home a present. All of you." She unfurled her bag and began to pass out items she had picked up in the forest. The children were not allowed to wander far into the forest; they could not yet discover all its splendors.

To Aratan she passed out a makeshift slingshot she had built from the fallen branches of an elm. To the other children she passed out fruits, sticky sweet blood oranges and apricots, as well as certain flowers, elfroots and ambrosia. Each child turned and ran with their prizes, holding them close to their chests. At last Lyna turned to Variel.

"What do I get, Lyna?" she asked, all innocence.

Lyna smiled. Saying nothing, she reached into her sack and pulled out a single, long, dark flower. Its stem was thin, and perpendicularly from it hung several short leaves. It had, remarkably, not been crushed or broken by the rest of the contents in the bag. Lyna held it aloft.

As soon as she saw it, Variel's eyes went wide as saucers, and her lips curled upwards in a huge grin. "Is that . . . a _deathroot?" _she exclaimed. She took it in her hand. "I've always wanted one! How did you ever . . . ?"

"It's a secret. Best not tell the Keeper about it, she'd skin my hide: deathroots are dangerous in high doses. Don't eat it. So, what do you have now?"

"I have an elfroot, a deep mushroom, and now a deathroot. Lyna, what can you make with those?"

"I have no idea. When I get back from meeting with the Keeper we'll have to see, won't we? Hopefully it's nothing too dangerous. Be safe, little one." She mussed up Variel's hair, kissed her on the cheek, and left her standing there in wonder.

After briefly washing her face and hair Lyna made her way to Marethari's aravel. Tamlen was already present, and Ashalle was there as well, looking nervous.

"Lyna!" Ashalle said when she saw her approach. "Thank the Creators you're alright. I've been worried ever since the Keeper told me the news."

They embraced in a brief hug. Then Lyna said, "I'm well, Ashalle. What do you mean _news_? What's happened?"

That was when Marethari chose to appear, leaning heavily on her staff. Lyna chose to hide her concern. _Gods, she looks so frail. _Lately, Lyna had begun to first notice just how old the Keeper was. Marethari had been Keeper since before Lyna was born, yet she had never before seemed _old_. The lines around her eyes and mouth were more pronounced, and at times she walked with her back almost bent over, as if she was carrying some great burden on her shoulders. _Which I suppose she is, _Lyna thought. _She is responsible for all of us. _

Marethari seemed to sense Lyna's worries. She waved an impatient hand. "Do not worry over me, _da'len_. I am fine. This news is rather troubling, is all."

Tamlen said, "What is going on, Keeper? Fenarel was rather vague."

Ashalle spoke. "There are humans nearby in the forest."

Lyna was stunned. _"H- Humans?"_ she said, shocked. She had never seen a human before, only heard of them in the _Hahren's _stories. "Are they close? Are they armed? Are they coming to attack us?" The questions flowed out of her like water, so great was her excitement.

"A good few questions," said Marethari. "Sadly, we do not have any answers. I have forbidden the hunters from venturing into the forest, but still, I would like to know the business of these humans. I do not believe there are too many. I would like for you and Tamlen to scout the woods and see if you are able to gleam their intentions."

"I'll do it," Tamlen said. "I for one am curious to see a _shem _up close." He turned to Lyna, clearly expecting her to agree in the affirmative, but before she could say anything Ashalle placed a mentoring hand upon her shoulder. Lyna looked at her and saw to her surprise that she had a rather anxious look upon her face. "Do not feel obligated to go, love. It may be safer to stay here."

"Safer," said Tamlen, "but not more fun."

"I will go," Lyna said. "You do not need to worry about me so, Ashalle."

"I cannot help it. You are a precious thing. I would hate to lose you like we lost your parents."

"Are you ready to go?" Marethari asked.

"We are," Tamlen answered. His bow and quiver already rested on his back, and a sword and flask of water was at his belt. He smiled that disarming smile of his, adjusted the strap of his bow. A mischievous glint was in his eyes as he said, "We'll be back before sunset. Keep that deer ready for us." He turned and started to jog lightly towards the clearing's edge. "First one to see a human wins!" he called back over his shoulder.

Lyna nodded to Marethari and smiled at Ashalle, but before she started off Ashalle said, in a voice full of despair, "You are more akin to your mother than you know, Lyna. I only hope you do not share her fate. Go with the gods and please, _please_ be careful. For me."

"Don't worry, Ashalle," Lyna Mahariel said, smiling. "I'm always careful."


	2. The Shape of Things to Come

**THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME**

**9:37 DRAGON**

She could see the colors in the air and smell the coming of the cold dawn, hear the sound of silence and taste the forest in a chalice of water. She could sense a deer a mile off and a hurlock even further than that. She could put an arrow through a bull's-eye at three-hundred yards. She had bartered with lords and princes, adventured with assassins and witches. She had carved a bloody path through a darkspawn horde to slay an archdemon. She had lost her Dalish lover, only to fall in love with the future King of Ferelden. She had done more in less than a decade than most did in an entire lifetime.

Yet for all that Lyna Mahariel remained a young girl; wise, perhaps, beyond her years, yet still young. And like all young girls she was full of doubts, doubts that linger.

One day, Lyna organized a hasty lunch with Arlessa Isolde, hoping for some advice to allay her fears. The food was served in Lyna's bedroom, a spacious and splendorous chamber located on the highest floor of the royal palace. She shared her floor with Alistair and Anora, who had their room just down the hall. That was no coincidence. Lyna had no intention of losing Alistair to Anora like she had lost Tamlen to that blasted mirror; she wanted him close. That mirror had been full of hidden danger, as was Anora; both were not to be trusted.

Lyna and Isolde had their lunch in the middle of the afternoon. Autumn was in the air outside; there was a chill wind that channeled and flew through the narrow streets of the city with alarming fury. The sun overhead was a pale yellow, and its light filtered weakly through the bedchamber's windows. The light was small and timid, yet it filled the room with a golden glow, and for a short time Lyna felt at peace.

Lyna ate only sparingly, but Isolde wolfed down dish after dish as if she were eating for two . . . which she was.

"When are you due?" Lyna asked.

Isolde sat back in her chair. "Ah, not for six months, the healers say," she said in her thick Orlesian accent: _six _came out as _seex._

"That's good. You'll have the baby in the spring or maybe the summer, depending on the weather. No one wants a winter birth."

Isolde smiled at that. "Connor was born in the winter."

"And nothing ever bad happened with him!" Lyna said, laughing. Sudden as a storm, her laughter was brought up short, for she had just remembered the reason she had asked Isolde to sup with her in the first place. Sighing, Lyna snatched one of the dates from the bowl and took a tentative bite. Then she began, "Isolde, we have been friends for a long time. May I trust you to keep a secret for me?"

"Of course."

Lyna began to tell her of all her doubts, of her fears and worries. Slowly she talked at first, but the more she spoke the faster the words seemed to come, until they spilled out of her like endless rain into a lake of doubt. At last she told Isolde of her greatest concern, the thought that had been forever in her mind these past few weeks, the fear - and hope - that maybe her life as a Grey Warden was not just to die, abandoned and forgotten, like so many before her.

Her eyes had been downcast as she spilled her mind, yet at the last they rose upwards to meet Isolde's. "So, will you help me?"

Isolde had remained silent throughout the whole tale. "Yes, I think so. First, though, we need to see if what you fear is correct. How long has it been since you and Alistair . . . ?"

"Two weeks, I think."

"And your sickness?"

"Only these past few days. I wake up every morning with a basin full of vomit by my window. My head aches and I find it hard to sleep. It may just be a fever, but I cannot help but wonder." _And I cannot help but hope_, she thought.

"A fever it may be, but that would not necessarily prove you wrong. Hmm." She rose and began to pace the room. "I am afraid that the only way for me to know for certain is to wait and see. A healer would know immediately, of course. You should tell Alistair."

"No!" Lyna said, perhaps too sharply, as Isolde stopped her pacing and stared at her with a bemused expression that read, _Why do you not want your lover to know? _ Lyna's voice broke as she explained, "I do not want to involve some strange healer I've never met. Please, Isolde, I have too few true friends in this city. I need you to trust me. And Alistair . . ." She paused, trying to carefully discern her next words. "I do not wish to give him false hope. He has too many worries on his shoulders as it is."

"Then I will do as you ask," said Isolde, curtsying. "And Lyna, I cannot help but notice you said _hope _at the end there, where before you said _fear." _She smiled, and swept out the door without another word.

_Yes, _Lyna thought sadly, _I noticed that too. _

She waited two more weeks for Isolde to finally confirm or deny her suspicious. During that time life in the palace seemed to go on much as it had for the past seven years. Councils were called, meals were served, Anora regarded Lyna with the usual icy glares. The sun rose and set four and ten times. Lyna even met with Isolde twice or thrice, and spent every other night with Alistair's warm body beside her own. All seemed normal. Yet during those two weeks she felt a wash of change come over her. Not just reverberating through her body - though she found that her brief sickness had left her and in its place had risen a fierce hunger. No, it seemed, rather, that the _world _was changing, Thedas as a whole. She could feel it in her bones and in her heart of hearts, in the earth and in the water. She could smell it in the air: something had changed. At the last council before Isolde came to her, there had been whispers of an unnamed catastrophe somewhere in the Free Marches. Alistair had sent Bann Teagan to investigate.

But these whispers did not concern Lyna Mahariel. She was King Alistair's trusted advisor and his not-so-secret mistress, but in truth there was only one pressing matter on her mind.

And so it was that, on a rainy and cloudy and windy autumn day, as the fallen leaves licked up against her window, did Isolde come to her at last. She put a hand on Lyna's swollen belly, gasped, and said, "Lyna, you're pregnant."

"I know," Lyna Mahariel said, and she smiled.


	3. Dispatches from Across the Sea

**DISPATCHES FROM ACROSS THE SEA**

One look at Teagan's face was enough to tell Lyna Mahariel that the news was bad.

The Bann of Rainesfere shrugged out of his traveling cloak; droplets of water fell to the floor, a gift from the raging storm outside. His boots were splattered with mud. He handed the cloak to a sentry who took it and dashed away. Running a hand through his red-grey hair, he strode towards the council table, leaving a fresh mud-print on the marble floor with every step. Lyna could practically hear the servants' collective groan.

"Councilors," Teagan said. Sitting down in the chair prepared for him, he gave a curt nod to each man or woman present. There were five in total; Arl Eamon, the sixth, was busy attending to his pregnant wife. Lyna sat at the king's right hand, at the head of the table. Directly opposite them was Anora. Lyna supposed she should be grateful - she did not have to sit near her. Yet a part of her wondered whether making Alistair and Anora's estrangement so obvious would work against her; the realm needed unity, especially now: she did not think Teagan's news would be to the betterment of Ferelden.

Ser Cauthrien was to Alistair's left. Unlike her fellows, she stood, a hand on the hilt on her sword. In truth, she was not in actuality a councilor, but she had been present at every council session since the start of Alistair's reign nonetheless. Anora had initially requested her presence, but Lyna had grown rather fond of her as well. Strange, she supposed, since Cauthrien had once done her best to kill her.

Filling out the council was the Grand Cleric. She, of all present, Lyna had objected to the most - silently, of course. Lyna held a deep mistrust of all Chantry sisters and brothers, as well as most of their "faithful." They were sheep, and this elderly woman was the shepherd of the flock. From the moment Lyna had met this woman - she still knew not her name - she had disliked her. She hated those cold grey eyes. She hated those spider web-like lines on her face that some said held aged wisdom but Lyna thought held old secrets. Lyna, like the rest of her wandering kin, had an inherited loathing of the Chantry. _My people made mistakes, but at least we did not convert by the sword. _Still, Lyna knew she had not a chance to discredit this old woman, so she held her silence . . . usually.

A servant was filling up Bann Teagan's cup with water. When she had finished Teagan took a long, healthy draught. Rivulets of water streaked down his chin. When he was done he let out a grateful sigh. "Ah, I needed that. Thank you, my dear," he said to the servant.

"Teagan!" said Alistair. "You've returned from the Free Marches. Have you news?"

"I do. None of it good." Teagan's voice was flat. "I crossed the Waking Sea in one of Bann Alfstanna's war galleys. We moored at Kirkwall for a night, then swept back out to sea on the morning tide."

"Just one night?"

"A single night was all that was needed. Your Grace, the refugees have told it true: Kirkwall is gone. Destroyed, rather. The entire city is one smoking wasteland. Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino are both dead, as well as thousands of others. The surviving population has fled: some north to Antiva, some east toward Nevarra, and still others have sailed south to land on our shores."

Alistair groaned; the golden crown upon his head threatened to slip off his brow. Hastily he stifled it. Lyna glanced around at the other councilors to gauge their reactions. Cauthrien and Anora remained cool and composed, but without missing a beat the Grand Cleric said, "Let us pray for those who lost their lives, children." She put her hands open-palmed on the table, then closed her eyes and waited a moment, clearly expecting someone to hold her wrinkled hands in theirs. Alistair, to his credit, did not flinch from his duty: he grasped the old woman's right hand. Anora at first regarded the offered hand with a mixture of annoyance and disdain, yet in the end she relented as well.

The Grand Cleric began, "Let us hope that our just Maker and our Prophetess deemed them worthy to enter their heavenly kingdom, and may their souls reside there forevermore. So let it be."

Lyna rolled her eyes. _Or let Falon'din guide them in the Beyond, _she thought. _Keep your ridiculous philosophy in the Chantry, you ancient hag._

There was a silence. At last Lyna spoke. "Do you know what happened, exactly?" she said to Teagan.

"Yes, of that much the refugees are clear. There was apparently a mage revolt against Knight-Commander Meredith."

The Grand Cleric sniffed. "Mages. Hmph." But at the same time Alistair laughed dryly. "A rebellion against Meredith? Why am I not surprised? I've met the woman. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

"That may be, Your Grace," Teagan said, "but nonetheless we should be cautious. Once the other Circles hear of this, they may get ideas of their own."

"Then we should double the Templar guard at Kinloch Hold," the Grand Cleric broke in. "Magic exists to serve man, not to rule over him. We must be vigilant against the thoughts of treason."

"We?" said Lyna. "Not me. I believe I've made my views on your Circles abundantly clear, Grand Cleric." The old woman sniffed again, as if Lyna's words had brought back unpleasant memories. "I say, let the Circle stand, as you say, only make its attendance only _recommended _for all mages, not mandatory. Remove Templar influence and let the Circle run itself. My people would never collar our such as you do."

"This comes from the woman whose people live in the woods like outlaws, scrounging in the dirt like vermin."

Lyna felt a sudden rage swell inside her. "_Vermin? _" She laughed bitterly. "The crow calls the raven black."

The Grand Cleric went on as if Lyna had never spoken. "And was it not this lack of magical restriction that led to the sinking of your city, Arlathan? A godless place if there ever was one." She shuddered and wrapped her cloak tighter about her.

"It was the Tevinters that destroyed Arlathan, not us! If you wish to slander me and my people, at least have the common fucking decency to fact-check first, you ragged, ancient, spineless little cocksucker. I'd rather slit my wrists than listen to you wax philosophy, you old cun . . ."

"Lyna," Alistair said, softly but clearly, "reign it in. I do not think you want to finish that sentence."

She shot him a look of pure loathing. "I . . ." She stopped, took a deep breath. A sense of regret came over her. "I . . . Yes, you're right. I'm sorry for my outburst." She gave a forced laugh. "It must be the baby speaking through me. It is my little ball of rage." She drew a hand across her swollen belly.

Teagan started. "Baby? Alistair, Lyna, do you mean . . . ?"

"Oh, yes," said Anora with false enthusiasm. Apparently she had decided that this was the right moment to break her long silence. "Lovely Alistair and lovely Lyna are having a child. How . . . lovely. Have you not heard, Teagan? The news is _everywhere_, from the sentries on the walls to the beggars in the streets to the children playing in their ramshackle houses in the Alienage. _Will it be a girl or boy? _they wonder. _What will they name it?" _A strange smile spread across her face; somehow, it made her look only more sinister.

"Yes, Teagan," Lyna said. "I am pregnant." She reached under the table and grasped the king's hand in her own, smiled at him, sadly. She turned back to Teagan. "Alistair and I had hoped to tell you under better circumstances, but . . ."

"You have my congratulations," he said, grinning. "And you must forgive the smallfolk, Anora. Let them have their gossip. The realm needs an heir in these troubled times."

This last remark produced two strange reactions: one from Anora, and one, surprisingly, from Alistair. Anora gave a not-so-subtle flinch at Teagan's words, and a flush of color filled her pale cheeks. Alistair merely looked downcast. Plainly, having it put so bluntly, even unintentionally, unnerved him. It worried Lyna as well, though she hid her feelings. At first glance, of course, an heir would be a splendorous thing, but she wondered what it would mean for her . . . and the child itself. The folk of Ferelden had put much trust on the line in accepting Maric Theirin's bastard son as king; Lyna did not know what they would make of _another _bastard, much less a half-elven one. A child borne of a human and elf coupling always looked human, and if need be could hide their elven parentage from unfriendly eyes, but there would be know such hope for her child.

"If I may ask, my lady," Teagan began, "how far along are you?"

The question brought her out of her dark stupor, and she was glad. "One month to the day, in fact," she answered.

To this Teagan reacted very strangely. For an instant there appeared a flicker of what looked like anxiety in his eyes. He regarded Lyna with an odd expression. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it very abruptly. Before she could press him on this, Anora spoke.

"I have a thought. We need to send a message to the Circle, as the Grand Cleric proposed, but it should not be done with a show of arms. We should send a diplomat, an ambassador on behalf of the Crown, someone who will listen to their demands with respect and no little attention."

_I guess that leaves you out of the equation, _Lyna thought, but she already knew where the queen was going with this.

"I cannot go, of course, nor can Alistair; the mages may take us hostage. I would rather not send you, Grand Cleric, as your presence may inflame them. And Teagan, with respect, you look as if you need rest, and we need to send a messenger immediately. Why, Alistair, we should send your elf girl."

_His elf girl?_ "Anora, I am sitting right here. I'm sitting right exactly here."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I had quite forgotten your presence," said Anora, in perhaps the least convincing lie ever. "I daresay you are a qualified negotiator. You've dealt with these mages directly. What do you say, my dear?"

"I think it best I not travel in my delicate condition," said Lyna.

"Oh, come now, dear Lyna. Why not take one for the Crown? I daresay you've been taking one _from _the Crown for long enough."

The Grand Cleric gasped and Alistair let out a resigned sigh. Before she could think, Lyna found herself rising from her chair. She could feel their eyes on her, and she saw Anora's triumphal expression. "Why not make the trip yourself, Your Grace? I could use a good laugh."

"Surely you don't mean that. I think the outside air will be good for you - and your baby. Do you Dalish not love the free air? Perhaps your child will be born naturally accustomed to the muck."

"Have you ever actually been outside of the palace, you pampered bitch?"

"I have."

"Not within this last decade, then."

"No? What can I say? I am truly jealous. I should spend a day or two outside, then maybe I'll end up a slut like you."

"At least I can _have _children, you barren wretch." She smoothed out her dress, smiled rigidly at Teagan, and grabbed Alistair by the hand. "Come on, Your Grace. We're leaving."

Looking confused, Alistair rose. She dragged him to the door. He resisted, though it seemed more out of fear at Lyna's sudden rage than any desire to stay with Anora. At the door he said, quietly, "Well, I guess that concludes negotiations."

Lyna pulled the king through the door and swept out of the hall, leaving the rest of them speechless behind her.


	4. The Girl With the Silver Crown

**THE GIRL WITH THE SILVER CROWN**

She was lying in her bed with her head pressed against her lover's chest, listening to his rhythmic breathing. Her naked body was pressed against his, waiting for sleep to take her, when she heard Alistair say, "You know, I think maybe you were too hard on Anora earlier."

She lifted her head off his chest and glared. "Do not tell me you are taking her side."

"No! I just think that, maybe, you could have been a tad nicer. About her infertility, for one."

"I was just defending myself. She called me a slut."

"I know, but . . ."

"Oh, do you agree?" Lyna asked. She was suddenly all too aware of her nakedness; she drew the white sheets tighter about her.

"No, of course not," said Alistair. His head collapsed unceremoniously onto the pillow; his eyes searched the ceiling. "Forget it." He closed his eyes as if to sleep. A troubling quiet fell upon the bedchamber. Moonlight entered through the open windows, turning her white sheets a brilliant silver.

That silence lasted for a good ten seconds before Alistair sat up sharply. Lyna thought he was going to have more words with her, or worse, leave for the night, but instead he just put a tender hand on her swollen belly, and smiled. It was a small swell, and soft, not as big as it would be eight months in the future. _Still, _Lyna Mahariel thought, _it holds a promise of life, amidst all our years of death and more death. Alistair and I . . . _

"How is this possible?" asked the king, as if the question had never been asked before.

"I don't know," she answered, truthfully. "Perhaps it is best not to know."

Alistair's eyes fell to mournfully gaze at the mattress. "You know that what Teagan said earlier is true. About . . ."

"Yes, I know." Lyna was not eager to think about it, either. She wished Teagan had never spoken . . . no, that wasn't true. It was not his fault: the matter of inheritance would have to be discussed sooner or later, though she had hoped it would be later. _Much, much later. This is all too much, too soon. _"We will cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose," she said to Alistair.

"Forgive me for not holding my breath," he said.

Lyna smiled. "You're forgiven."

She dreamed a strange dream that night, of a young girl with leaves in her hair, and eight figures in gleaming plate, and hovering about them all, a shadow that filled the dream with darkness.

She first found herself in a well-lit hall. The dome-ceiling was painted gold. Pillars of white marble lined the hall, five abreast. The floor was hard and cold beneath her feet, and it was pitch-black, as of obsidian. A scarlet carpet ran from the door she stood before down the length of the hall towards a many-tiered dais. On the dais sat an empty throne with jade armrests and a cushion and seat of violet. Behind the throne a white staircase ascended to the rear of the hall, then branched left and right. Lyna walked towards it.

She strode down the very center of the carpet, beneath high windows that seemed to reflect neither day nor night. There was a pleasant fragrance in the air. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hall. She ascended the dais and paused to examine the throne. It looked so sad, so abandoned with no king or queen or lord to sit it. She ran her fingers over its crest and down the armrests.

As she came to the first landing on the staircase, she looked rightwards and leftwards. She turned right first, and felt a strange horror come over her. The rightward steps ended in a golden door with a silver handle, but she sensed a hidden malice behind the splendor, like a cruel predator waiting to spring a trap long planned. She did not wish to go that way, but neither could she head left. The steps on the leftward side simply trailed off into the wall. There was no door there, no window or passageway. It was like she was being herded to the right. Reluctantly, every part of her brain screaming in protest, she turned back to the right and hiked up the steps and opened the door.

But no enemy was waiting for her on the other side, only a narrow passageway that led off into darkness. Somehow, though, it was no less disturbing. This hallway was old and appeared to have partly fallen into ruin. There was a sickly stench in the air that somehow reminded her of how Denerim has smelled after the Archdemon was slain. And there was only a single, solitary torch, hung on a scone at the far end of the hall. She crossed the threshold and she felt, once more, a carpet between her toes. But this carpet was damp and covered with moss. It seemed to tickle her feet. She looked down and saw to her horror that from a dozen little wormholes insects of all shapes and sorts were issuing, and were crawling over the tops of her feet. She recoiled, shook out her legs and half-jumped, half-ran halfway down the hall, putting the loathsome insects behind her.

She looked round. The whole passage was rotted, as if it had been exposed to constant rain and humidity for a hundred years. There were more wormholes were she now stood, but fortunately there were no more insects to behold. The carpet, she now saw, must have once been of many colors and designs, but now was a sickly green hue. Paint had run down the walls and hardened as it did, so that the walls seemed to crying many-colored tears. This was a bad place. How she longed for the splendor of the golden hall. Lyna looked back, hoping to head back out, but the door was now lost to the darkness. She had no choice but to move on.

There were two doors in the hall, one at the far end, and another fast approaching on her right. As she moved closer, a strange feeling came over her, as if she had been here before. The door was open, she saw. She felt she must not gaze inside, but could not help herself.

She found herself looking once more upon the golden entrance-hall, but as if through a silver veil. The hall was not empty now: eight figures stood by the throne, four men and four women. She tried to examine them closer. At a distance all seemed human, but the more she stared the more they appeared elvish. But these were unlike the elves she knew; for one, they were taller, their bodies not so skinny. There was a beautiful grace to their movements; every action a song, every movement a symphony. Most wore some kind of silver-white plate armor under their cloaks, and their faces seemed noble, as if they came from an ancient and unpolluted lineage of royalty. Lyna Mahariel had seen such dignified features in some of her kindred, such as in Zathrian and Lanaya, but none bore such a nobility as these eight. The very air around them seemed electrified. They seemed to be talking in some strange language, as well. It seemed somehow familiar . . .

But they were not alone. A shadow moved about them. Lyna called it a shadow because it could be called no other name. It seemed evil, shapeless as the Void. At first it seemed bat-like, but like a shadow it changed as it moved, taking first the form of some four-legged beast, before it became roughly humanoid. But it never became a solid thing; always it was like a colored vapor. And as it moved, a fierce chill crept down the hall and seeped to where she stood in the dilapidated passage. A shiver ran up and down her spine; the lone torch in her hall flickered uneasily. All at once she desired to be free of this vision, whatever it was. But she remained glued to where she stood, watching this surreal scene.

These elves, or humans, or whatever they were, all seemed to welcomed this formless horror warmly, as if it were one of their own, returned at long last from some lengthy journey.

All of them, save one.

Lyna did not notice at first, but one of the women stood apart from the others, slightly to the right and a few steps down the steps of the dais. She, like Lyna, watched the shadow with suspicion, and perhaps, a little dread. Her hair was raven, a bow was at her back and strangely, a hawk or some bird-of-prey was perched upon her shoulder. She alone of all the others did not rush to embrace the shadow. Lyna looked at her more attentively. She looked familiar, but at this distance she could not determine how. At length she turned her head and looked, it appeared, directly into Lyna's eyes, seemingly beseeching her. But then the scene dissolved, and the door slammed shut before her.

_I need to get out of this place,_ Lyna thought. The golden entrance-hall seemed only a sinister illusion now, shrouding the true horrors within this place, luring the unwary in with the false promise of comfort. There would be no escape from this nightmare if she returned there. She had no choice. She had to try the other door. She walked on, leaving the eight elf-humans and the shadow behind.

The far door was even further away then she thought. She walked for what seemed like ages before she at last reached it. The torch blazed, cascading her face with heat. She tried the knob on the door, opened it. Beyond, there was only blackness. She took a step into the black . . .

And found herself in the midst of a forest clearing. She looked about her. The miserable hall was gone; not so much as a single pungent stench remained of its legacy. All around were trees and trees. Cool grass was beneath her feet, and flowers hugged the trunks of trees. A sweet fragrance was in the air. She drank it in; it reminded her childhood days in the Brecilian Forest. The sun was setting to the west.

She turned and plunged out of the clearing and into the trees. She wanted to explore this forest. It did not take long for her to realize that this forest, whatever its name, was _old. _It had existed for ages beyond counting: before the darkspawn, before the Imperium, even before Elvhenan. It had been here in the days before the written word, and it _remembered. _The trees were full of memories . . . and of anger, and sadness. There was not a sound save her soft footfalls on the soil. The whole forest seemed still, as if it were waiting, watching. It made her uneasy.

She weaved in and out of ancient meadows that had not been disturbed in centuries. She passed undying pines, rowans and oaks. She walked for what seemed like miles and miles until she heard a single noise, strange amidst the silent trees: a child's laughter. It was full of mirth. The sound drew her. She followed its tones; louder and louder they became in her ears, until she walked between two trees and emerged in a grove, its floor orange with the light of the dying sun. A large boulder jutted out from its center, a twisted and jagged thing, grey as rain-clouds amidst a magnificent sea of many colors. Two young girls were playing on it. One, a redhead, was hanging about the lower reaches of the boulder, where its edges were less perilous and the promise of safe and soft grass was not far away. There was an anxious look on her face as she watched the other girl dance on top of the rock. Neither seemed not to notice Lyna, standing a short distance away. Leaving the redhead girl, Lyna moved off to get a closer look at the other girl.

She had hair the color of obsidian; it fell to her shoulders and about her neck in an elegant way. Her skin was so pale it was translucent, and she seemed to give off a faint shimmer or glow, as if she was not of this world. It reminded Lyna oddly of the elf-humans she had seen in the golden hall. A thin silver circlet was on her brow, embroidered with fallen leaves she must have picked up off the ground. She was slender where the other girl was skinny, confident where the other girl was anxious. And she seemed eerily familiar to Lyna Mahariel.

As she came ever closer to the dancing girl, Lyna noticed that she was humming softly. The tune felt familiar, as if it was something Lyna had forgotten from childhood. A smile was on her face, and the girl's eyes were closed. Lyna was about a meter away when they opened, and her heart caught in her throat. The girl's eyes were purple. Purple like Lyna's own. And her hair . . . For a few moments the dancing girl seemed not to notice Lyna, though they were not far apart. Then her eyebrow arched, and a bemused expression came over her face. Slowly, tentatively, the dark-haired girl murmured a single word. A single _elvish _word. And when she heard it, Lyna Mahariel gasped.

The dream dissolved around her. Lyna found herself back in her own bedchamber, lying on her own bed. Dawn had come. The sun had broken through the harsh rain-clouds of yesterday. Rays of golden sunshine fell, fractured, through her windows, filling the chamber with loveliness. Through the opened windows she could hear all the morning resonances of the district outside. Doors opened, shut as the common folk left for their daily chores. The sickly _splat _of nightsoil as it was upended over the street. The inevitable curses of disgusted passersby. The _plop plop _of horse-hooves on the cobblestones. 

Lyna turned over. Alistair was still beside her, sleeping. She felt his warm body beside her own. She supposed that that should give her comfort, yet in truth her thoughts were dark. She wished she were back in the dream. She would give a hundred nights with Alistair for one more minute in that dream-forest. She had _seen _her. In the flesh. Her own blood . . .

Though not everything in the dream had made sense. The shadow and the eight noble figures, and the forest and the red-haired girl, those most of all. Somehow it all seemed connected. Who were those people, the eight elf-humans she had seen, and that hideous shadow? And the forest . . ._Where was it? _It was not the Brecilian Forest, she knew for certain. _And the ginger girl, who was she? _She seemed important, somehow. Her head hurt.

_By the gods, _Lyna thought, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes, _I feel I've aged a hundred years in a few hours. _But there was one thing Lyna Mahariel was sure of, amid of the riddles the night, and that was the word that the dancing girl had spoken, just before the dream had faded. The girl had said it to her, to Lyna alone, not to the redhead, because it was a word that had only one meaning in elvish, and that was how Lyna knew. It was a word that was spoken a thousand-thousand times a day, in a dozen different languages across Thedas, and would now echo in Lyna Mahariel's thoughts for months and months.

_Mamae?_

_ Mamae?_

_ MAMAE?_


	5. The Letter

**THE LETTER **

Her days were a wild assortment of councils, dinners and planning. Planning, planning and more planning. Even during the councils, and during the dinners, her mind was ever on the planning. She had her bedchamber tweaked to accommodate an additional resident. Most of her weapons and armor - the sheer amount of which had bemused her guards - had been stashed safely away. The carpet had been scrubbed and washed and was now relatively clean. Her drapes had been changed to something less dreary. But the most obvious change was the infant bed that had been thrown against one side of the room, adjacent to Lyna's own bed. It was a precious thing. Its posts and legs were polished maple, richly colored, and its mattress was soft velvet. It was a gift from Arl Eamon and his Arlessa, and Lyna adored it so.

The immediate days after her forest-dream were a lost memory. The days after those days eventually stretched into weeks, the weeks into months. Autumn was extinguished and a fierce winter rose in its place. Snow covered the roofs and streets of Denerim. The chill seeped through the walls of the castle, and innumerable fires in innumerable hearths sprouted up all about the palace in a desperate attempt to beat the winter away. Her own fireplace was never barren.

And as the days shortened and the nights lengthened, she grew.

It was a slow thing, but with each passing week Lyna Mahariel's belly expanded. With her new girth came a insatiable desire for all food delicious, and the sad realization that she could no longer fit into any of her old clothes. Loose-fitting robes became her standard attire. Lyna was not one for sleek dresses and fancy footwear, much preferring her light mail shirt and soft riding boots, but she would take all the radiant raiment in the world over those stupid robes. They were once Isolde's, Eamon had said, but that did little to curtail her disdain. Isolde herself was at the end of her pregnancy; the healers believed she would pop any day.

Lyna's rather delicate condition meant that some poor soul had to help her up the stairs each and every night; she could not longer make the journey herself. And that poor sod, fittingly, was Alistair.

_"Maker," _he said one night, with a grunt, "can't you help me out a bit?" He was supporting her, with an arm dipped round her waist, but the last few steps seemed to be too much for him.

It was a cold night. The scent of the air outside foretold that spring was not far ahead, and that winter seemed to be in its last throes . . . but it was not fading away silently. "Uh, _you're _the one who got me into this predicament," Lyna said, taking not a small dose of pleasure in seeing Alistair struggle. It was, in fact, true that she was not helping him as much as she could, but only because she did not want to make things _too _easy on him. "Consider this my revenge."

"Oh . . . forgive me, Your Splendiferousness . . . if getting a woman pregnant . . . is not in . . . the Grey Warden handbook."

"Now, now. The Grey Warden handbook has nothing to do with this. I think, maybe, that _someone_ is letting the easy life of royalty get to them." She cocked her head. "Maybe around the cheeks, yes, and the gut. Must not forget the gut. Oh, dear." She faked a disgusted sniff.

"Are you calling me fat?"

"I'm just saying the old Alistair would have had me up these steps by now, in my bedroom, and would probably have already disrobed me to boot."

They came at last to the end of the stair, and Lyna found herself once again on level ground. The hallway stretched on before her. Torches hung in scones upon the walls. She looked sideways at Alistair. He was indeed looking a bit peaked and heavy. _Easy life of luxury indeed, _she thought. She gave a mental sigh. _Oh, he just needs something to kill. Anora, maybe, or some darkspawn. How many archdemons are left anyway?_

Alistair turned, leaned down and kissed her on the nose. "You are so cruel, but I still love you."

"And I love you, but I still don't forgive you for putting this baby in me."

Two guards were on either side of her door, elves, and both old friends: Athras and Ariane. Lyna trusted the pair of them a thousand times more than any other palace guard, but that was not her sole reason for employing them. She hoped to play matchmaker. Athras had been alone since his wife's death, and Ariane had lived a life of solitude, apart from her clan. They needed each other, whether they knew it or not. So far the results had been less than ideal, but Lyna was secretly confident that the two would find each other in the end, much as she found Alistair.

"What news since this morn?" she asked as she approached.

"The castle is quiet," said Athras solemnly. "It feels like the calm before the storm."

Ariane rolled her eyes. "You say that about _everything, _Athras. You say that about breakfast_. _You are right about the quiet, though. You have a letter, _lethallan,_" she added to Lyna, handing her a slip of folded parchment.

She examined the heading: _Lyna_, was the sole name for the addressee. The script was elegantly penned and seemed somehow familiar. She had a fleeting image of a signature on an ancient treaty. "This is Lanaya's handwriting," she said to no one in particular. It was a pleasant surprise. She and Lanaya had corresponded for a period after the Fifth Blight, but time and their respective duties had put an unfortunate stop to that.

"I thought the same," Athras put in, "after I caught a brief glimpse of the writing."

"She was not here, was she? In the city?"

"No. The letter was dropped off by a courier. There's no timestamp, so I don't know when it was written."

"Not recently, if it came from the Hinterlands," said Alistair. "But I do not think it was written too long ago, if it was addressed to you. Such letters always have a way of finding you, sooner rather than later." He laughed. "Fan mail."

Lyna smiled at the elves. "Thank you." They bowed, and she and Alistair passed between them and entered the bedchamber.

The fire in the hearth was the sole source of light; it cast the room in a sullen orange glow. Flickering shadows played on the walls. Lyna placed the letter on her bedside table. After lighting a few candles to give the room some more ambience, she sat down on the bed beside Alistair. Her back ached and her soft mattress called out to her lustily.

She glanced about the room. In the gloomy radiance of the fire, it seemed rather empty and forlorn. Lyna felt barren without all her weapons and armor, which had previously littered to chamber so thoroughly that navigating them was an operational hazard. Only her great black bow remained in sight, hung above her bed. _The bow I used to slay the Archdemon, _Lyna thought, looking at it. _Or at least, the bow I used to mortally wound the Archdemon. _It was her sword-slash through the neck that had finally put an end to the Fifth Blight. _It has been too long since I used you, old friend. And now, maybe, I never will again. _

"What do you think is in the letter?" Alistair asked her.

"Words, most likely. Maybe some sentences." _Ugh, it feels like someone is boring pincers into my head._

"I hope its good news. Every time word comes out of the Hinterlands I expect it to be a declaration of war."

"I hope our daughter isn't as cynical as her father," Lyna said.

"I think it runs in bastards and . . . wait, our _daughter?_ What makes you think we're having a girl? You're not a witch are you?" He gave her a searching look.

She decided it would be best not to tell the king about her dream of the girl with the purple eyes. Their lives were already strange enough. Instead, Lyna gave a coy smile and said, "I just know. The baby kicks far too much to be a boy. We Mahariel women are an impatient lot, you know. This baby wants to be born."

Alistair laughed. Then there was a long silence. "So . . . a baby girl," he said at length. "I hope she is as beautiful as her mother. Maybe a tad less aggressive, though. I suppose I'll have to teach her how to fight."

Lyna snorted. Her hands went to her belly and she spoke to the child within. "Don't listen to him, love. _Mamae _will teach you how to fight, and how to hunt, how to string a bow. Daddy will teach you which forks go on which side of the plate, how to curtsy, and how to cook. You know, girly stuff."

Alistair did not stay much longer: Lyna was much too sleepy for talk. Her eyelids were heavy. As she guttered out the candles and prepared to lay down and let the night take her, she remembered the letter on her nightstand. It took a great effort to prevent sleep from overcoming her as she unfolded it. The words were too small to be read by the light of the fireplace, so she forced herself to light another candle. This proved a more difficult task than she had anticipated, but in the end she managed it. She began to read the letter, her eyes straining against the candlelight.

_Lyna. I hope you receive this eventually. I've had to put this letter in the hands of a non-elven courier. It was not my choice, but the situation demands it. We've been in contact with your old clan for several months now. They're in the Free Marches. Their letters initially began cordially but they've grown darker the past few weeks. Their last one particularly so. It said that all that their halla were dead, and Marethari as well. Something terrible has happened. I'm taking a small group across the Waking Sea to help them and bring them back to Ferelden if that is possible. Cammen and Gheyna are with me, as well as Mithra and several others. I'll send word to you as soon as I am able. Wish us luck. _

__Lyna's heart beat ever faster as she read. The news troubled her. _Damn this pregnancy! _she thought angrily. _I should be going with Lanaya. Those are my friends over there!_ The message went on.

_And there is one more thing. I am truly sorry to bring this news to you, Lyna, but your old guardian Ashalle has passed away. It was very peaceful. We buried her in her own garden and planted a chestnut over the spot. If you can, please come and visit. I know everyone would be glad to see you. _

_I must be off if we have any chance of saving your clan. Stay safe, child._

The letter fell from her hands, drifted lifelessly to the floor. Her heart pounded in her ears like a funeral drum. _Ashalle, no . . . _The last time they had spoken had been at Alistair's coronation. _I should have visited. I should have written, at least. _Lyna Mahariel did not weep easily, yet now the tears streamed down her face as easy as rivers, rivers and rivers. She tasted them on her lips. They were warm and salty. _First Tamlen, now Ashalle, _she thought miserably. _Is there anyone else the gods want to take from me? _Memories flooded her mind. They were as warm as the tears.

"Damn it," she said. Slowly, deliberately, she lay on her bed once more. Her dreams threatened to be sad that night. Her eyes closed, trying to drown the tears. The back of her eyelids became like living projections. She saw Tamlen there, young and whole. Ashalle was ever present in those memories, smiling, laughing, but her grey eyes always held secret sadness. Suddenly Lyna sat up, cradled her belly in her hands.

"Ashalle," Lyna whispered to the child within. "I will name you Ashalle."

That was the last thing she remembered before sleep took her.


	6. Ashalle

**ASHALLE **

She slipped in and out of fever dreams and waking hours.

It was night. Stars speckled the black sky. They were there, all ten of them, sitting round a campfire. A red-haired girl warmed her hands against the flames. A sad smile was on her lips. "You love Alistair," she said. "I am happy for you . . ." She turned away, looked down; tears fell to the earth.

She was sitting on a soft bed in a well-lit room. Her thighs were on fire, and she could smell blood. People fluttered all about her. Their figures were blurred, as if she was looking at them through a veil of tears; grey cloaks shrouded their faces. They attended her, with water if she thirsted, tasteless greens if she hungered. When her neck ached, they brought her more pillows. They changed her sheets rapidly. The new ones were silky soft, the old ones always stained red, red . . .

The aravel crashed through the forest. She rode on its back as the halla pulled it forward. A young boy with sandy hair was at her side, as ever. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. An amused expression came over his face. He kissed her then - on the lips. She was startled, but pleased. A flush crept up her neck to her cheeks as the sun broke through the boughs above, catching in her hair, black as night.

The room was still and silent. The fire was in her head as well now, flaring at her temples. Suddenly a figure appeared. "Who . . .?" was all she managed before a damp wet cloth was placed across her brow. The pain in her head lessened a bit, but that that only seemed to exacerbate the ache in her legs, and in her womb. "Drink this, my lady," said a strange but kind voice. She felt a thick paste-like liquid trickle down her throat. It tasted like bitter ashes.

A svelte young woman ran through a wooded grove, lithe and graceful. She had what looked like an ancient and gnarled root slung across her back, bone-white, and a silvery circlet was on her brow, bedecked with purple roses. Autumn was in the air: leaves of many colors covered the forest floor like some dense organic carpet. The girl seemed not to disturb these as she moved. It appeared, rather, that the forest did not wish to disturb _her. _Tree limbs moved aside as she approached, as if they feared to sully her pale skin, and the moonlight above seemed to shine on her and only her. Groves grew dark and dreary after she vacated them, so illuminating was her presence.

The dream faded and she found herself in the bed again, but only for a moment. She thought she felt a small body beside her own, but when she looked to check she slipped into a dream-filled sleep once more.

Marethari's face was drawn and sorrowful. "Our gods are gone, _da'len_," she said. Her voice seemed to reverb solemnly. "Long gone." The keeper led her down a familiar hall with rotted walls and a damp floor. Many doors were on each side. The keeper made to open one. "Come, child. I have to show you something. I found them here. They are waiting for you." She opened the door.

Lyna Mahariel awoke then to the taste of copper.

She tasted a metallic substance on her tongue.Old blood maybe, or that vile white-paste-liquid-thing. She looked about the room. Daylight streamed through the open windows. Beyond, she could smell the familiar toxic odors of the district, but never had they smelled so sweet. She inhaled deep, savoring the palpable smell of fish and shit and misery. Feeling refreshed, she took several moments to take in her surroundings. She was in her own bedchamber, she realized now. Whether she had always been here or had been recently moved there she could not discern. Her sheets appeared to have been freshly changed, and there was a basin of water on her nightstand. There was no fire in the hearth, but somehow that seemed a triumph: Summer had come at last. The air was balmy and refreshing and the manic rains of spring were but a distant memory now. She smiled, but it seemed to her that something - no, some_one _- was missing. Without thinking, she tossed her coverlets aside and bounded for the babe's bed. There was no sign of her daughter, but the bedding appeared to be recently ruffled.

Before she could investigate further the door opened - slowly, tentatively, as if someone did not wish to disturb her. Ariane stuck her head over the threshold and peered inside. When she saw Lyna up and about her eyes widened. "LYNA!" She crossed the threshold with astounding speed and before Lyna could so much as open her mouth Ariane was on her, wrapping her in a great hug. "It's about time!" she said to Lyna's exposed neck.

"How long have I been out?" Lyna asked her.

"Three days," Ariane responded. "Not counting the day you were in labor."

"Gods, has it really been that long?"

"It seemed longer to us. You kept drifting in and out of sleep. We were getting worried. Everybody has been visiting you: Athras and I, of course, but the Arlessa and Arl of Redcliffe as well, with their daughter, the little baby Rowan, and Bann Teagan, Ser Cauthrien, some of the other Banns that were already in the city. I never knew you had such friends! The Grand Cleric tried to see you too, but Athras put a stop to that." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "We think that she was going to try to bless your baby in the name of the Chantry. _Blech._ We Dalish have our own traditions. Half-blood or not she's still part elf, damn it. And Alistair has never left your side . . . well, except now. Yesterday Isolde asked when you were going to wake up and Alistair said, 'Knowing her, whenever she damn well wants to.' Oh, that reminds me: Athras and I have some news to share, but I'll wait until later to tell you."

"Ariane, you're doing that thing again!"

"Right, sorry." She took a breath.

"Where is she, Ariane? Where is Ashalle?"

Ariane smiled. "Alistair has her. I think they went outside. I can get him for you."

"No need," Lyna said. "I can find him for myself. I just need to change out of my nightie."

"Alistair thought you'd say that. He said that under no circumstances am I to let you go wandering the castle in your state. So, this is me putting my foot down. _Stay here, _and I will go find Alistair."

"Fine, but please be swift, Ariane. I wish to see her."

After she left Lyna made herself feel busy. She drank some of the water in the basin - it was cool and refreshing and helped wash away the coppery taste in her mouth. She made her bed and replaced the bedding in Ashalle's cot with some fresh linens in the cabinet. Now that she did not need to worry about traipsing through the castle she was less inclined to change into some fresh clothes. No doubt she had been wearing this nightgown for days, but it was soft and light and loose-fitting. Instead she washed her face with water from basin and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Then she went over to check her reflection in the mirror.

The face within was her own, but it seemed more haggard and wan than she could remember. Doubtless that was a result of the childbirth and the lack of food, but she felt more weary than she would have expected. Her chest felt compressed and bruised, as if she had been struck by a massive war hammer. Her legs felt lifeless. Indeed, the last time she remembered feeling this way was immediately following the Joining ceremony in Ostagar, so long ago. _Let's hope I didn't just bring another demon-baby into this world, _she thought, remember Morrigan's words that night in Redcliffe Castle.

She was lying on the bed with her back propped against many pillows when Alistair arrived. Immediately, she sprang up to greet him. The king was wearing a fine tunic of cobalt; enamored on his left breast, in silver, was the sigil of the Grey Wardens. To Lyna's astonishment Alistair had for once decided to don his crown. She pondered that for a few moments, before her attention was drawn to the small bundle he was holding against his chest. Impossibly little it seemed.

"Alistair, " Lyna said softly, softly, "is that . . .?"

The king took a few steps towards her. "It is." Then, seeming to address the bundle, he said, "Ashalle, meet your mother. Lyna, meet your daughter."

"Oh, love," she said breathlessly, as Alistair handed her the child. Lyna Mahariel's heart beat a thousand times a moment as she took the babe. _This is happening. This is really happening. _The first thing she saw in that swaddling cloak was a shock of black hair, and at that moment Lyna knew her dreams had not lied to her. Ashalle seemed to have been asleep, but as soon as Lyna turned over a few folds of her cloak her eyes opened, wide and curious - purple eyes, like little amethysts. Suddenly she felt her legs give way beneath her, and she would have fallen if Alistair had not been there to grasp her arm.

"It's alright, Lyna," he said. "I've got you."

Lyna Mahariel looked up at him. "She's real, Alistair. She's really, properly real. Our daughter. A little me, a little you."

"I think she is more than a little you. She looks just like you."

_Maybe. Except for those pesky ears, I think. _Then, taking care not to flatten her newly-arrived child, Lyna wrapped her arms around her lover and kissed him gently. "I love you," she said, as if all the times she had said those words before meant nothing until this very moment.

Ashalle had been still up until this point, watching these two strange creatures in silence, but now she stuck a tiny arm up in the air and brushed Lyna's cheek with a soft fist.

"And you, little one," Lyna Mahariel said to her, with tears streaming down her face. "And you."

Ashalle gurgled happily.


End file.
